


The Lay of Amarië

by LuxaLucifer



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ardor in August, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The day is young yet, and we haven’t wet our feet in the river today.” Amarië/Elenwë, written as a pinch-hit for Ardor in August.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lay of Amarië

“There you are!”

The statement was quickly accompanied by giggling from the tree Amarië was standing in front of. Pretty, rich giggling, of course, hinting at a melodious and wonderful voice. Everything that woman did was beautiful, from talking in court to wading through a stream with her skirts held above her ankles. It was superficially what had attracted Amarië to Elenwë, before she’d gotten to know the intelligent, amazing mind behind the dark eyes and pretty face.

“How did you find me?” said what looked like a very still shadow in the tree. The shadow shifted to reveal its true form; Elenwë, wearing a gray dress suited for their game.

“You say it like it was easy,” replied Amarië, laughing. “It took me nearly an hour to find you. I only figured it out when the shadows shifted and yours didn’t shift with them.”

“Oh, I like that,” replied Elenwë, hopping down from the tree with grace, her bare feet making scarcely a sound on the grass. “Clever.”  
“Not nearly as clever as you,” said Amarië, leaning forward to threads her fingers through Elenwë’s golden hair and pressing a kiss to her temple.

“This is nice,” said Elenwë softly. “Just spending time with you. Things are getting so complicated at home, what with Turukáno and Findaráto and everything.”

Amarië shook her head. “Let’s not think about them right now. The day is young yet, and we haven’t wet our feet in the river today.”

Elenwë chuckled at that. Amarië once again found herself marveling at the beauty of that voice, of how sensuous it could be. Neither of them mentioned how difficult it was not to talk about the future looming in front of both of them. Neither of them wanted to; but they knew they would, knew it would come up eventually.

“The river, huh?” replied Elenwë. “You do love to feel the mud between your toes, don’t you?”

“I do,” Amarië said, lifting her pale white arms up and feeling the breeze. “This is what Elves were meant for, you know that? None of this bureaucracy and politics. Just us and trees and getting our damn feet wet.”

Elenwë shook her head, smiling. “Are you saying you wish we didn’t have the luxuries of our homes, all the little things that make life easier? No, there’s a time and place for everything, my dear.”

“Too much talking,” decided Amarië. “Entirely too much talking on both our parts.”

She reached over for Elenwë’s hand, who let her take it with only a hit of amusement. Then they were off, running through the trees like they were young maidens born right after the Awakening, before either forces of good or evil had come to influence their people, unlearned and unhindered by fear.

When they hit a large stream they didn’t stop, running straight from springy grass into the rushing water. They stopped right in the middle, where the water hit their torsos. It was cold and fresh and Amarië had to resist the urge to dunk her entire body in it.

“It’s like poetry,” she said. “Poetry one of the Vanyar would make. Two Elven maidens running through the woods, laughing and singing.”

Elenwë smirked, a gleam in her eye. “Oh really? Do you think they would write poetry about this?”

Elenwë leaned forward and kissed Amarië, her lips soft and warm against her own, a heat building in Amarië’s core as she leaned forward, hands gripping Elenwë’s hips. She could feel Elenwë’s breasts pressed against her and furthered the kiss, feeling slender fingers tangle in her hair.  
There was pleasure and passion and gentle laughing before their kissing ended, their lips red and swollen, shivering from the water running around their thighs. They were both breathless, their hearts racing.

“I’d write poetry about this,” Amarië said finally, head pressed against Elenwë’s shoulder. “If I were any good at it, I would.”

“Maybe I will,” said Elenwë softly. “Maybe I’ll write the Lay of Amarië, detailing our love and our beautiful kisses and the way you look when you run through the forest with your hand in mine. Maybe I’ll-“

She broke off and didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“I can’t,” Elenwë said calmly, hopping out of the stream with her dress hanging wet and sodden around her. “I can’t write poems about us.”

“I know,” replied Amarië. “It was a joke. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Elenwë shook her head, hair flowing around her shoulders. “But don’t you see? I wish I could!”

“I know. There are many things that can never be. Your betrothal to Turukáno would not have been the only barrier. There’s also my father. He’s so old fashioned, so unmovable. He would never accept- he would never accept us.”

Amarië stepped out of the river now, shaking her skirt to free herself of the weight of the water on her clothing.

“We have today,” said Elenwë, meeting Amarië’s gaze evenly. “We have today and we have tomorrow and we may even have many years together.”

The golden light of the Tree was strong and wholesome as they held hands, walking through the woods together. They didn’t speak, occasionally reaching up to trail fingers through leaves. They were Eldar of Valinor and words were not the only way they could communicate. Worried minds were soothed with the power of thought alone, the only outward sign a slight tightening of their entwined fingers.

Eventually they stumbled across an old house, ivy twining though cracks in the brick. The building was small, only an outbuilding for some larger home either too far away to see or already gone into dust. Amarië didn’t say it, but she rather thought poetry could be written about this place too.

“We stand in the dawn of our world,” said Elenwë. “And yet here is decay.”

“And life,” said Amarië. “Ivy is many things, and alive is one of them.”

“How did this place come to be, though? It’s quite delighting to me,” said Elenwë calmly.

Together they clambered into the small brick house, standing on what must have once been a floor but now was dirt and leaves. There was a hole in the ceiling where treelight streamed in, lighting up dust particles.

Poetry, or a painting. Amarië wished she was more artistic. As it was she would have to rely on the clear pool of water that was memory, dipping her fingers in it on occasion. Something like that- she really was no poet. That was Elenwë. She was the one who painted memories with words. 

Elenwë brushed her fingers against the old brick. Amarië waited. She knew the signs of when the older woman was planning to say something.

“I’ll still write poetry about us,” whispered Elenwë. “No one has to see it but you and me. The Lay of Amarië, a testament of love between two Eldar. It will be beautiful and glorious, just like you.”

“That is more than enough,” replied Amarië, heart swelling. “For all I need is you.”

“You silly girl,” said Elenwë sharply, even as she smiled. “You silly girl. Of course you have me.”

They kissed in the abandoned outbuilding full of ivy and held each other, laughing together and reveling in the certainty of the now.


End file.
